Journal, Day Five
Now, all art is impossible. That is its special function.
The perfume dispensing machine in the Women’s toilet at the Owen Sound bus station is called the Resemblance Distributor. A one dollar coin could procure a simulacrum of Opium, Obsession or Poison.
“If there had been no repressions, no stake, truth would have cast off the clown’s attire; it could have spoken.” Bakhtin, Rabelais and his World
It is the important function of money to use all available vital power first.
To keep our appetites in play, I climbed a tree and tossed you cherries. If only my lips were cherries. I’d drop down some cherries. My lips should be cherries. Are these lips cherries. Why are not my lips cherries. My mouth bent as heavy cherries. Among her breasts, cherries. Tasting pleasures such as cherries. With a hot heart I’d toss you cherries.
“The mere consciousness of our bodily organs is enough to prevent them from functioning properly.” Hannah Arendt, The Life of the Mind
She had perhaps escaped from the political economy of the future.
Fruit-flies were everywhere.
I don’t think the will is beautiful, or hardly ever.
What wouldn’t feel false. To bite into a lucid pigment.
Just Another Spontaneous Horizontal Restaurant.
I’d take some food from my tree-so-sweet.
On a warm afternoon after rain, one’s shoulder-basket ready, everything is an apple—Persian apple, sour apple, spiny apple, love apple, golden apple, Pomona—there’s something sad about it.
She was fiercely monogamous and a libertine.
Water becomes leaves. At the core of this a dissidence.
How does style suffer?
Poet Lisa Robertson was born in Toronto in 1961. She lived for many years in Vancouver, where she studied at Simon Fraser University, ran an independent bookstore, and was a collective member of the Kootenay School of Writing, a writer-run center for writing, publishing, and scholarship. While in Vancouver, Robertson...